


the language of touch

by moodyreindeer



Category: Cloak & Dagger (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Clothed Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Literal Sleeping Together, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-03-07 15:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18875659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodyreindeer/pseuds/moodyreindeer
Summary: Tandy can be a little mean, but Tyrone kind of likes it.Tyrone can be a little soft, but Tandy kind of likes it.A pre-season two speculation of how Tandy and Tyrone learned how to touch each other after months of forcing themselves to stay apart.





	the language of touch

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this after the first season finale and am posting it after the second season finale so if it's a little all over the place, forgive me - i can't stay focused on a single project for shit :)))))
> 
> this fic is purely self-indulgent, fair warning.

Now that they can touch, they rarely do. If anything, they make more of a habit of leaving an obvious space between them, cautious, calculating. They are closer now - inseparable, practically - but only as far as mind and spirit.

Frankly, Tandy is sick of it.

“I want to touch you,” she whispers fiercely. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the rising sun as it peeks out above the sleeping houses, higher and higher as morning ushers in. Unlike the slumbering neighborhood around them, neither of them has slept. Their blood pumps with hunger, keeping them wide awake.

“How?” Tyrone replies, blinking long and slow. His eyelashes are beautiful. Tandy wants to feel how soft they are against her fingertips.

They keep their voices low although they are in no danger of being caught. Tandy’s mother is away for the weekend - a sobriety checkpoint in need of celebrating. It’s his first time in her house, in her bed. Her first time having a boy in this place, the one true piece of evidence that the elusive Tandy Bowen was once a child like everybody else. The moment feels sacrilegious, reverential.

She doesn’t know if he means _how do they touch without blasting apart?_ or _how would she touch him, in what places?_ She answers both, hovering her hand above his knee as she says, “maybe it’s like our powers. We have to will it.” 

She closes her eyes and reaches her thoughts out to the white-hot core of light inside her. Its shape changes every time she reaches out to it (sometimes a little, sometimes a lot), but it never looks as sentient as she knows it is. Right now it is an orb, round and smooth and blinding. 

 _Let me touch him_ , she begs it, _please. If I can never touch him again I just might die._  

Dramatic, maybe, but nonetheless true. She wants to always remember what his hands feel like - if they are rough or smooth, if his nails are sharp or dull on her skin. 

(A deeper, animalistic part of her wants to feel his pulse between her teeth, leave her mark on that long column of endless skin on his throat, but she pushes it aside. Her lust is just growing restless because Liam is no longer around to sate it.)

Slowly, slowly, she slides her hand underneath his shirt. Finds his heartbeat. She rests her palm against the gentle thud of his heart and closes her eyes. Without meaning to a small sigh slips out. 

 _Home_ , she thinks contently. 

Tyrone’s eyes are half-closed; he looks down at her through lowered lashes, mouth slightly open, lips looking impossibly soft. He is a picture of dazed pleasure - Tandy is absolutely giddy with power that she makes him this way.

Her hand drifts down and to the right, until her fingertip sits on a tight nipple. She could be mean and pinch the bud, scratch it with her blunt nails and see what kind of sounds he can make, but that action rings of something a little more sexual than she’s looking. Right now, no. But maybe later. 

 _Definitely later_ , the lustful, primal part of her brain whispers. 

Instead, she wants to be vicious in a different way.

Tandy pulls herself up, retracting her hand from underneath his shirt. His chest quivers, his mouth trembles, the breath he lets out shaky with want.

Tandy starts on his bicep, on the skin below the edge of short sleeve, and begins a trek up and down his arms. She traces the veins in his forearm, the crease of his elbow, the small, barely-there indent of an ancient scar. 

“How are you doing this?” Tyrone asks. They both watch as her fingers climb up and down his arm, back and forth in a soothing rhythm. Tandy can’t help but feel smug when his fingers twitch as she brushes his wrist.

Tandy adjusts so she straddles one of his legs, leaning down so she can rest her head on his shoulder. She tilts her face up, shivering when her lips brush his earlobe.

“You have to really, really want it.”

Tandy can hear his heartbeat as it pulses in his neck. She thinks, just from knowing him, that this steady, languid thump is the calmest his heart has ever beat. So much of his existence is an erratic pattern of events that it makes her smug to think that she can be eye of the storm.

A moment, a hour, an age later, slender hands grip her hips, right on top of the loose waistband of her sweatpants. She tenses despite her hand still on his arm, expecting the cool breath of his shadows to freeze her skin. It never comes. There is only the roughness of his callouses, and the burn of skin on skin. 

His breath warms her temple, disturbing the flyaways that she can never tame there. “What do we do now?” 

Tandy closes her eyes. He has graceful hands - long fingers attached to wide palms covered in a geography of lines. They’re gentle where they hold her, like he is handling a glass figurine. It’s hard to think of a future past the next second when they’re lying so close like this.

She tucks her head underneath his chin, already halfway asleep when she whispers back:

“Enjoy it.”

* * *

Tyrone has only ever shared a bed with two girls: Evita and Tandy. Evita had been naked and on top of him and whispered his name like a prayer, laughing as she reached her high and rode him to his. Yet, holding Tandy close, both of them fully clothed and covered in a blanket, it feels significantly more intimate than sex.

It might have something to do with their proximity. His bed in the church is small, so small that it can hardly fit his athletic frame. In order to lay together Tandy covers his entire left side, one leg thrown over his hips and an arm strewn across his chest. 

The day has run its course; Tyrone attempted to do calculus problems he wasn’t in class to learn and Tandy had her first day at group therapy. She has begun ranting about it as soon as she affixed herself to him, but her voice trailed off a while ago.

Tyrone thinks it has something to do with the hand he has buried in her hair.

She’s wearing a dress today. Tyrone knows what that means - she only wears a dress if it is a part of a character she’s going to play. Tandy never specifically said how much effort she was going to put into group; he doubts Tandy put any effort in at all, but whoever she was today probably did.

She shifts, pulling her legs wider and shifts her hips closer. He can feel where her thigh stops and her underwear starts.

“Tandy,” he mumbles, hand slipping down to cup her neck. “What’re you doing?”

She freezes. “Do you not want - “ 

He stumbles, slipping a hand around her waist to keep her from pulling away. The thought of losing her warmth makes his chest fill with ice.

“No, no - I want to. I just don’t want you to feel like you…have to.”  He dips his head so their eyes can meet. 

Tandy rolls her lips, looking into those deep sad eyes.

“I wanna do something. Will you let me?” 

A heartbeat passes. Then one of his hands finds hers and he squeezes, firm and sure.

“Yeah.”

She sits up, untangling herself only to swing one leg over his waist. She kneels above him until he gets the hint to sit up, propped up by the wall behind them.

“If you wanna stop, tell me. Please.”

He nods. Licks his lips and looks at her like she set the planets in alignment. “You too.”

Tandy smiles, beaming ear to ear as she locks her arms around his neck, folds her legs, and _grinds_. 

It’s an odd sensation, albeit not a bad one. She can feel the coarseness of his jeans through the thinness of her underwear, the jut of his erection nudging her thigh. If she lifts, his lap would be coated in her arousal, and something about that image makes her giddy. She likes the idea of marking her territory.

She develops a rhythm, slow and smooth, to a song he showed her forever ago. An R&B hit from the nineties, ideal bedroom music.

Tyrone has his head back, eyes closed, body limp. His hands, strewn to the side, twitch like he wants to reach up and touch but he’s been rendered powerless.

“What’s the matter, Ty?” she coos. “Want me to suck your dick and call you baby?” Her teeth pull his ear. “Isn’t that what Evita’s for?”

Tyrone opens his mouth, lets out a moan that makes her toes curl. “Not together anymore.”

Tandy freezes, just for a moment, then starts moving again, slower and harder. The hem of her dress is getting damp from where her panties touch it. “Interesting.”

Her hands reach under and up, deft fingers pinching his nipples. Her nails dig into his skin, hard hard _hard._  

He gasps. “Ahhhh…” His lidded eyes look at where the sleeve of her dress falls down her shoulder, exposing the freckled skin that forms the slope of her breast.

Tandy finds his pulse in his throat and very gently locks her teeth around the skin above it. If she focuses, she can feel his heartbeat vibrating through her teeth. It’s his life in her hands and the thought makes her dizzy with a myriad of things, the most prominent being a possessiveness she hasn’t felt toward anything before.

When she lets go she sits back to admire the neat row of teeth marks. Tyrone reaches a hand up and touches the spot wet with her saliva.

“Did you mark me?” he pants, faintly amused. 

She lifts her brows at him. She maneuvers a leg to pry his open; she settles down so that one of his long, jean-clad legs is in between her legs, his knee pressed flush against her cunt. 

“What are you gonna do about it?”

He smiles, the same hand that traced her bite mark creeping down to caress her clit.

Tandy purrs, clutching his dick from where it strains in his jeans.

They let go together, and meet at the bottom of the crashing wave. 

* * *

 

After, the bed reeks with sweat and sex. Tandy’s dress and panties are tossed away on one side of the bed, Tyrone’s jeans and shirt on the other, and they lay curled together on the bed in his clothes. 

Tandy looks good in his T-shirt, and the way she stretches against his side, smug and sleepy, tells him she knows it.

“That was nice.” 

She huffs a laugh. “Yeah it was.”

He’s ready to fall asleep when Tandy mumbles, “is it really over? Between you and Evita?”

He shrugs as best he can lying down. “I’m a wanted man - kinda hard to take a girl out when everyone’s looking to turn you in.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No, not right now.” 

“Mm, good.” She scoots closer, if possible. “You know we’re gonna get you out of this right?” 

He plays with hair, the comforting feel of her strands slipping through his fingers lulling him to sleep. 

“If anyone can it’s you, T.” 

The last thing he feels before sleep sweeps in completely is the tickle of her breath on his collarbones.

“We’ll do it together.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hey on my [tumblr](http://spideypetes.tumblr.com).


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